The Last Innocent Hour

by Margot Abbott

  “No. It is all right, Excellency. She is right to question me. Sally is, I think, my oldest friend and has never been afraid of asking me anything. I value this.” He smiled sadly at me.

  I wondered what he would say if I asked him why he didn’t remember what had happened on the carpet in the sitting room that afternoon. I wanted to smash his handsome face in.

  “It is the sacrifices that are important. Germany is in such danger, in such despair, that each of us who has a chance must make sacrifices. Must be strong for our country. Especially those of us in the SS who have made this oath. We have sworn loyalty to the Fuhrer, and what good is that oath if we run away at the first sign of trouble?” He spoke carefully and quietly and then, just as carefully, just as quietly, laid his napkin next to his plate and stood up.

  “I thank you both for your friendship and for helping me through this very difficult time. And for the dinner.”

  “But you haven’t finished your dessert,” said my father.

  “I cannot.”

  “Another sacrifice?” This was from me, as nastily as I could say it.

  He ignored me, and continued speaking to my father. “I think my staying here any longer would be an embarrassment to you, Excellency. I know you do not wish me to see Sally. I accept this”—and now he looked at me with his clear blue eyes. “I wish it could be different. Please, believe that. And I hope someday. . . Well, for now, I think I must leave.” And saying that, he bowed—he bowed!—and left the dining room.

  I stared at my plate, at the uneaten torte.

  “Sally,” said my father, reaching for my hand.

  I jumped up and ran into the hall. Daddy didn’t know everything, barely knew anything, what I had gone through alone at the beach house, what I had gone through, almost alone, here this afternoon.

  Christian was taking his cap from Vittorio. He had his gun back in its holster. I hadn’t noticed that at dinner. Vittorio went to the front door.

  “You won’t come back?” I said, pressing my hands together.

  “No.” He shook his head.

  “You can’t . . .” I started to say, but my voice was too loud.

  “Sally.” My father had come out of the dining room.

  I stepped back from Christian. “You’re right. Of course. I was just wondering if you had anything to say to me.”

  An expression passed quickly over his face, but he merely shook his head. “I think it is best this way, Sally. I am sorry.”

  “You bastard,” I said, my teeth clenched to keep them from chattering. I had started to shake again. But it didn’t stop me from slapping him as hard as I could, leaving his cheek and jaw bright red.

  He flinched, but did not raise his hand, either to me or to his face. Behind me, I heard my father gasp and Vittorio say something in Italian.

  I turned and left the three men behind me to sort things out.

  LATER, LYING IN bed, trying to sleep, I found that my strongest memory of that unreal day was that Christian smelled bad—of sweat and damp wool and gunpowder, and of something else I could not identify.

  Years later, in the destroyed and blasted city, whose canals and sewers were full of the dead, I would recognize the smell again. It was death itself. He had brought it into my elegant sitting room and had told me of it, warning me of its power. Its attraction.

  THE LACE SHOP

  DURING THAT WEEKEND at the end of June, in the summer of 1934, the Nazis, with the SS doing the dirty work, managed to rid themselves of all sorts of bothersome people, including Ernst Röhm. Many of the murdered were old party members who had, for one reason or another, fallen out of favor. The numbers of people actually murdered ranged from seventy, according to Hitler, to several thousand, according to the rumors the foreign correspondents heard and relayed in the bars.

  Himmler, with Heydrich, had consolidated the power of the SS and his new concentration camp at Dachau was full to bursting. With hindsight, of course, I can now see that the weekend was the start of the ruthless brutality and violence, sanctified by the state that would come to overtake all of us. But first, Hitler let the evil loose on his own followers.

  When I heard of an officer’s wife who had been cold-bloodedly killed as she threw herself between the assassins and her husband, I knew just how terrible had been the price Christian paid for his new job, his position, and whatever else it was he thought the SS could give him.

  Just days after that brutal weekend, I ran into David as I came out of Wertheim’s, the big department store on Potsdamer Platz. I was leaving for Italy in a few days. David offered to walk along with me, as I had only one more errand left. I happily accepted his company. The store was being picketed by thugs in makeshift uniforms, not SA. I didn’t know which was worse, the organized violence of the storm troopers or this new threat from what seemed to be common street gangs.

  “We’ll have a martini at the Adlon after. I know I deserve it after listening to all that crap.” He gestured back at the picketers.

  I put my hand in the crook of his arm, wishing I could confide in him. He would hate it, I knew, and he might even hate me because of it. So I stayed quiet, trying to keep up with him as he strode along the street. We turned the corner.

  “Poor old Wertheim’s. Bet it goes downhill fast.”

  “I know. I hoped to get in there before the takeover, but it was so crazy, I just left. Now I’m looking for a little shop, a little lace shop.”

  “A what?”

  “A lace shop. A shop that sells lace, dear dimwit. Let’s see. It should be right along here.” I was looking for the address on a slip of paper and didn’t see the danger.

  “Uh-oh,” said David, stopping. “More thugs.”

  “What?” I asked, then, looking up, I saw the four SA men ahead of us. “Oh, come on, David. Don’t be such a coward.” And laughing, I pulled him forward with me.

  “Listen, Sally,” said David, dragging his feet. “If I don’t live through this, will you write my little old white-haired mother in Brooklyn?”

  “Don’t be silly. They’re probably not even picketing the store I want. Sydney told me it’s just a hole in the wall.”

  But as we drew close to the four men, I saw that they were picketing the lace store.

  “Damn,” I said, taking David’s arm, and walked right by them. They were SA men, all sturdy young fellows, out proving their allegiance to the government that had just emasculated their organization.

  “I’m glad you are so reasonable,” said David, as we neared the corner. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his brown tweed trousers and jingled his keys.

  I stopped, looking across the street at a tall, narrow poplar tree. Then I turned around and started back down the block.

  “Whoa, I, where’re you going?” cried David, starting after me.

  “Back to the store. Sydney said they had the perfect collar for my new suit’s blouse, and I won’t have a gang of thugs spoiling things for me.”

  David grabbed my arm and stopped my march down the sidewalk. “Wait . . . I . . . you don’t know these guys.”

  “Better than you imagine. Oh, David, you can’t tell me they’d hurt me. I’m an American, they can’t touch me.” I didn’t believe it, but I was sick of being frightened.

  “Sweetheart, they won’t care if you’re Eleanor Roosevelt.” He looked down the block where the SA men were watching us curiously. “They are not fooling.”

  “If you don’t want to come with me, then don’t, but I’m not going to let a few bullies tell me what to do.” And freeing my arm from David’s hand, I walked on.

  “I’ll go get a taxi in case you have to make a run for it,” he called after me.

  I laughed bravely and continued until I reached the men. I could see the narrow window of the shop. It was covered with swastikas and anti-Jewish slogans admonishing loyal Germans not to trade with the scum inside. I was more angry than frightened by now and the anger gave me strength to confront the picketers.

&nb
sp; Smiling sweetly at the four men in their khaki uniforms and jackboots, I walked right through them to the recessed door of the little store.

  “Hey, miss,” said one fellow in German.

  “Yes,” I said in English, turning around, leaving one hand on the door.

  “It would be better if you were to do your shopping elsewhere,” he said in German.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, still in English, “but I don’t understand you.” I smiled at them, still sweetly. “I thought all of you had been killed off,” I added, daring them to understand me.

  “A fucking foreigner,” said a dark-haired man near the curb. “Guess they don’t have Yids in England.”

  “But nobody is supposed to go in,” argued the first man. “More money for the Yids.”

  I was furious and almost said something more, but instead, I turned and yanked open the door, quickly closing it behind me. A bell tinkled inside. The SA men did not enter the store after me.

  I stood looking around the room I had risked my neck to enter. The store was very narrow—a glass case took up nearly all the space. Behind it and opposite to it, from the floor to the ceiling, were shelves full of small bolts of lace and boxes. There were no lights on, the only illumination came from the curtained window, and that was obscured by the crude slogans scribbled on the glass.

  Looking out the window, I saw the SA men were talking energetically to each other. Perhaps they were deciding who should come in and drag me out.

  It was very quiet in the shop. Then I heard whispering behind me and I turned to find a handsome, dark-haired young woman with the greenest eyes I had ever seen standing in the curtained doorway. She wore a dark print dress with white collar and cuffs of much finer stuff than the fabric of her dress. Her eyes shone in the dimness of the little shop.

  “We are not open,” she said.

  “The door was.”

  “I was coming in to lock it. Now, I will do so after you leave.”

  “Yes, all right,” I said and turned to go. At the door, I stopped. I could see the smudged shadows of the men outside. One of them stepped up to the door. There was a heavy bolt at about eye level and, quite instinctively, I pushed it into place. The man tried the door, rattling the handle. I backed into the shop, watching until he stopped and moved away.

  “What did you want?” The young woman’s voice was still incredulous.

  “A collar for a silk blouse—to wear with a black suit, very smart,” I said, turning to face her. “And probably buttons. Do you have buttons?” I looked around.

  “Wait a moment, please,” she said and disappeared back through the curtains.

  I turned to look through the display-case glass and rubbed out a circle. My white-gloved finger came away black.

  “It is very dirty. I am sorry, Fraulein,” said another voice. I turned. The young woman was back with an older woman. She was very short and dressed all in black, her white hair arranged on top of her head. She also wore beautiful lace at her throat and wrists. She moved behind the counter and smiled at me.

  “We have been closed almost a month now,” she said. Then she made a little gesture with one hand, waving away the minor difficulties.

  “You need a collar, Fraulein? For a silk blouse?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Good, good. I can help you. It will be perfect. But first, tea.” I started to demur. “Please. Marlene, tea for the Fraulein,” she called. She had a sweet voice, but was very brisk, a woman used to her own way.

  She led me through the curtained door. “The light is better here,” she explained. She didn’t have to add that we would be hidden from view.

  Through the curtain was a small sitting room with deep-green walls and a fine green-and-cream Oriental carpet. A small sofa and two armchairs were upholstered in green, pale yellow, and cream stripes. Everything here was clean, and there was ample light from a lovely, delicate chandelier. It looked like all the best shops, where quiet salesgirls carried or modeled the items one at a time. I realized that it had indeed been an exclusive little shop, and I was angry anew at the stupidity of the waste.

  Tea arrived and the old lady and I drank and chatted about pleasantries as though four young men did not hover threateningly outside on the sidewalk.

  Marlene, though, was tense and remained suspicious of me, giving me hard looks as the older woman served the tea and dry biscuits.

  “Sugar?” asked the old lady.

  I started to ask for it, then saw the level of sugar in the bowl.

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  “Don’t Americans take sugar? As the English do?”

  “I suppose it depends.”

  “They drink, coffee, Mother,” said Marlene from the door.

  “Oh, I am sorry,” exclaimed the old woman.

  “No, please. This is lovely.” I put my cup down. “This room. And your kindness. I didn’t expect. . .”

  “We’re Jews,” blurted out Marlene.

  I stared at her. “I know,” I said softly. The older woman held up a thin hand.

  “Marlene,” she said emphatically. Then she smiled at me. “We will not speak of it. You are here for a purpose and we will help you. Now to business.”

  The tea tray cleared, the swatches appeared, and Marlene passed back and forth between the two small rooms with samples of lace. Some were actually collars wrapped in tissue paper that the old lady’s slender fingers peeled carefully away.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know,” I said, laughing. “It is all beautiful. I can’t make up my mind.”

  The old woman delicately rubbed her fingertip against her lip, thinking. “Ah,” she said, her faded blue eyes lighting up. “I know. I will get it myself.” She rose from her chair and left the room, rustling in her long, old-fashioned skirt.

  Marlene stood against the other door with her arms folded in front of her. She watched until the curtains stopped moving, then quickly crossed to sit next to me.

  “You are really an American?” she asked. She spoke hurriedly, just above a whisper.

  “Yes.”

  She took a deep breath. “You are very brave to come in here. Will they hurt you when you leave?”

  “I don’t know.” I brushed my navy skirt. “I guess I’ll find out.” I smiled at her with more bravado than I felt.

  “What is your name?”

  “Sally Jackson.”

  The other woman repeated it. “I will remember,” she said.

  I looked around the room and saw a wedding picture in a silver frame atop a small table. I rose and walked to it.

  “Is it you?” I asked.

  “Yes,” answered Marlene. “My husband is in Switzerland.”

  “Oh, working?”

  There was a pause before the answer. “No. He had to go.”

  I turned to face her. “Had to?”

  “Yes.” Marlene’s green eyes bore steadily into mine, daring me to ask more questions.

  “But you stayed here.”

  “My mother-in-law wouldn’t leave her lace,” said Marlene in a tight bitter voice. “And I have a little girl.”

  “A child,” I exclaimed, wondering and somewhat afraid at where this conversation would lead.

  Just then the old lady came back into the sitting room with a long fold of tissue paper in her hands.

  “Here it is,” she said and reverently laid her find on the low table. The little room was silent except for the crinkling of the tissue paper as she carefully folded the layer back from the treasure within.

  I gasped. “This is beautiful,” I whispered and looked up at the woman. “But it’s too . . . too much. It’s exquisite. And it must be very valuable. A piece of lace like this . . .” I reached out, reluctant to touch the gossamer lace. Here and there tiny seed pearls were scattered amid the flowers of the pattern.

  The old lady picked it up with both hands. “Come,” she said and led me to the mirror over Marlene’s wedding picture. She arranged the lace, a length of ab
out a yard, around my neck, creating a V-shaped collar.

  “There you are,” she said, holding on to the two end pieces at the back. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “It’s perfect,” I said, thinking of the dress the lace should rightfully adorn. Then I saw Marlene’s face in the mirror.

  She was looking at her mother-in-law and her expression was one of utter resignation, of sadness, of defeat.

  “Madam, I couldn’t. It must be too expensive for me. And it is too beautiful and rare for a suit blouse.” I lifted the lace gently off my shoulders and carried it back to the tissue-paper nest.

  “I will give you a good price. Because I think you are a young lady who appreciates beautiful things.”

  “How much?” I asked doubtfully, keenly aware of Marlene’s eyes on me.

  The old lady named a figure.

  “Oh, no,” I cried. “Madam, this piece is worth ten times that. I would be robbing you.”

  “Money,” said Marlene. Distracted, I glanced at her.

  “I would rather you had it than one of their fat wives,” said the old lady fiercely. She stood very straight, looking at me with her chin up.

  “And we could use the money,” said Marlene slowly.

  I looked from one to the other, then sat down and grabbed my purse. Opening it quickly, I pulled out my wallet. I had about fifty dollars’ worth of German marks. I counted out almost all of it.

  “Here. I’ll just keep this to get home.” I handed the bills to Marlene. “That’s for the lace. Now,” I said, looking up at the old lady, “I need a small, more ordinary piece. And cuffs, too.” And I pulled my emergency fund out of one of the wallet pockets—two fifty-dollar bills. I placed them on the table, still folded. It seemed so little.

  The old lady, unhappy at my ploy, was silent, but her daughter- in-law jumped up.

  “Yes, I’ll get them.”

  Marlene returned with several pieces of lace that were quickly wrapped in tissue paper and placed next to the first.

  The old lady fingered the paper around the treasure. “My mother brought it from Vienna when she married my father. She said it was a scrap from the Empress Elizabeth’s wedding gown.” She looked up at me and smiled. “I doubt this story, but it is romantic and I like to think it is true.” She took her hand from the paper-covered lace. “Marlene, will you wrap this, please?”