THE LOBBY OF the gym was empty. The last time I had been there was to watch Heydrich’s bout. Then, I had hurried through without noticing the wall of trophies and framed team pictures. The only things that made it different from my college gym were the black banners with the SS lightning bolts and the requisite portraits of Hitler and Himmler. I pushed through the double doors at one end of the lobby. In the dimly lit stairwell, I could hear the distant sound of blades hitting. It was an eerie sound echoing down to me, and made me uneasy and profoundly unsure about my right to be here. I could turn and leave, and no one would ever know.
But I had to find him. I had to tell him. I had gone to his office building in the morning and, after a frustrating conversation with a patronizing reception clerk, finally had been sent here. I went up the stairs, the old wood creaking at my every step.
When I pushed at another door and encountered resistance, I stepped back. The door opened and a young man in a fencing uniform stuck his head out. He was surprised to see me.
“Fraulein?” he said softly.
“Good day,” I said. “I’m looking for someone. They told me he was here.”
“Who told you, Fraulein?” He was obviously as nonplussed about this encounter as I was.
“At Friedrichstrasse. An officer,” I said helplessly.
Patiently, he asked me whom I was looking for. “He’s fencing,” he said, when I told him. “I’ll let him know. Do you want to come in and watch?” He opened the door for me and I slipped into the gym.
Three fencing strips had been laid out at the far end of the gym for the six fencers who were using them. Two men watching the fencers agreed that if I stood there, by the door, I could remain inconspicuous behind the bulk of the bleachers. One of them promised to tell Christian I was there as soon as possible.
The gym seemed much larger with only the few fencers in it. Daylight coming through the long narrow windows along the ceiling turned the walls and floor golden. The footfalls of the fencers echoed down the hall.
One pair of fencers stopped. A hit had been scored, but it was hard for me to see from this distance. The two fencers removed their helmets and I saw that one was Christian. The other was Heydrich. I drew back a little behind the bleachers. The men shook hands and Christian went to the sidelines. I guessed that he had lost his bout. Heydrich stood and watched the other two pairs. A man in black fencing gear—the fencing master—walked up to him and they talked as they watched.
Christian stood with his helmet under his arm, his blade swinging from his hand, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He had never talked about fencing with me. I hadn’t even known he fenced. My messenger walked over to him, said a few words and nodded toward where I stood. Christian looked up, searching for me, and I took a few steps forward so he could see me.
His face remained expressionless for a long moment. My spirits plummeted. I had been wrong to come, he was angry. Just then, one of the other bouts came to a climax and Christian turned his head to watch. It took all my determination to keep my feet from carrying me out of the gym. But he turned back in my direction again, and this time, he waved slightly. Then he turned his attention to the fencing master, who was demonstrating a combination.
The last pair to finish their bout were still fencing. One of the men suddenly attacked, ending with a beautiful, clean lunge and retreat. His teammates clapped and he made a brief salute. The losing fencer took a step backward, then suddenly dropped his blade and grasped his hands to his side. The clatter of the blade on the wooden floor drew everyone’s attention. The man fell to his knees. One of the other men ran to him and pulled off his helmet. The injured man took his hand away from his side. There was a patch of bright-red blood on his white fencing jacket. He fell forward, one arm extended alongside his head.
The sight of the blood galvanized the fencers. The fencing master moved to the injured man, turning him over, stretching him out. Heydrich sent a man from the gym, presumably for help. The man who had inflicted the injury stood, his blade dropping helplessly from his hand, looking at his partner.
I could hear little except echoing murmurs. The fencing master, kneeling in front of the injured man, blocked my view and I could not see what happened next. But just as two men in white uniforms entered the gym behind me, the fencing master stood up, shaking his head. I pointed down the gym and the newcomers hurried toward the fencers, carrying a stretcher.
They were too late. The injured man had died. I could see him on the ground at his comrades’ feet, the red stain across his chest.
It was like a scene from a play, the golden light falling on the young men in white. Heydrich stood over the fallen man, then knelt down and kissed his forehead. The general stood up, said a few words, then raised his arm to salute the dead man. The other fencers followed suit, and the two bearers lifted the body onto the stretcher.
Just then, Heydrich raised his head and saw me. He became very still, staring at me, his gaze seeming to catch me fast. Why had I come? Why? I felt like a fool, no, more than a fool. I felt I had stumbled into some forbidden rite. I should not have been here to see this accident. But here I was, and he had seen me. I waited, unable to free myself from his gaze.
Without turning his head, Heydrich said something that brought Christian to his side, then sent him down the gym toward me. Heydrich turned away, and I backed up and spun around through the swinging doors. I ran across the lobby for the stairs. Behind me, I heard Christian come after me.
“Sally!” he called, but I didn’t stop. He caught me at the doors of the main lobby. “Sally, wait,” he said, grabbing my arm.
“I’m sorry,” I said, speaking English. “I didn’t mean to be here.”
“Come, please.” He pulled me away from the door. I resisted until I realized he was trying to get me away from the door the stretcher-bearers would use. So I followed him through the doors at the other end of the lobby into a gloomy hallway.
I started apologizing again. “Stop, Sally, please,” he said, his hand on my shoulder.
“That man’s dead. Right there. Dead.”
“Yes,” he said. His face contorted for a moment, but he controlled it. He let go of me and rubbed his face with his hands, a gesture I remembered from that horrible June day. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I came looking for you,” I said, trying to control the shaking that was taking over my body.
“Why?”
“I need to talk to you, Christian,” I said. We were facing each other, talking in whispers. I heard activity in the hall. Christian turned his head to look at the closed door between us and whatever was going on.
“In here,” he said in a whisper and pulled me a few steps down the hall into a small training room. It was empty except for mats rolled up at one end and gymnastics equipment pushed together at the other. A grimy punching bag hung listlessly to our right. The room smelled of sweat, old sweat, worked into the mats and equipment, into the walls and floors.
“It’s so c-c-cold,” I stammered, shaking all over. I had my arms around myself and my jaws hurt from my attempt to stop their chattering. “He was a friend of yours? The man who died.”
“I knew him.”
“How could that happen? I know accidents happen, but not with foils. Not with the tips.”
“We don’t use tips,” he said dully. He hadn’t moved from in front of the door.
“That’s terrible, irresponsible. Heydrich ought to be arrested for allowing . . .” My voice petered out as I saw his exhausted, sad face.
“What are you doing here, Sally?” he said.
“I’m sorry!” I shouted, flinging my arms out. “I needed to see you.”
“Stop apologizing, for God’s sake,” he snapped. “I’m sorry too. You stop. I’ll stop. God, you haven’t changed a bit.”
“Changed? Oh, I’ve changed all right.” I started to laugh. I think, looking back at my behavior, that I was more than a little crazy that afternoon, wound up tight wi
th fear and insecurity and horror, and feeling my secret, which grew every day, taking over more of me. I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“I’m pregnant,” I said, gritting my teeth.
“Congratulations,” he said, his face expressionless.
“Pregnant.” I translated the word into German.
“I understand you,” he said, still in that detached tone.
I turned away from him, feeling sick. “Oh, God, I’m so sick of thinking about you, of dreaming about you. Of missing you. I’ve spent my whole stupid life missing you.” I fought the tears, getting angry instead, and rounded on him. “Why? I don’t understand why. There are lots of other boys around, maybe not so damned handsome, but normal, ordinary. Americans, even. Who wouldn’t do that to me on the carpet in my sitting room and then not remember. Make me pregnant and not even care!” I pushed at his chest and shoved him, pushing him away from me.
“I can’t stand it! I can’t stand you! You bastard. I hate you.” Then I pulled my arm back and swung at him. He stopped me, catching my wrist in mid-swing, grabbed my other arm, and held them both tightly in his hands in the space between us.
“Don’t,” he said. His hands were wound tight around my wrists, hurting me. I looked up at him. His eyes were intense and fierce. They had darkened almost to gray. I had never seen his eyes like that before. They were frightening. I can hurt you, they said.
I became acutely aware of everything: the pain in my wrists and arms, his tight grip, my awkward position, the distant traffic noises, Christian’s breathing. For a long minute we were frozen there, hanging on the brink of something, the currents between us deep and swift. His jaw clenched and his fingers moved on my wrists, as though unsure whether to push me away or pull me toward him.
I looked down. Instantly, his hold on me relaxed and I moved back from him, blindly, bumping against a wall. I leaned on it and slowly slid down until I was sitting on the floor. I was exhausted.
The baby. It was still there, a problem to be faced.
“Why did you do that to me that day?” I asked in a whisper.
He thought for a long time, standing where he was in his canvas fencing jacket with the SS sports badge on the sleeve. He stared at the floor until there could not be an inch of the worn wooden boards he had not memorized. Then he raised his head and looked up at the dirty window with the iron grating in front of it. Finally, he spoke, quietly.
“You were there. No,” he said, holding his hand out to stop my retort. “I did not mean it that way. I’m sorry, I find it difficult to talk about this—that day.” He fell silent again for another long pause.
“I’m ashamed,” he said quietly. “Of the whole . . . of everything that happened. I wish it had never happened.”
That was it. I pulled my heavy legs up, preparing to stand. My shoes scraped the floor, and at the sound, Christian looked over at me, our eyes catching hold.
He almost smiled, his face softening a little. “You really thought of me all that time?”
I didn’t answer, feeling my face crumble as the tears came to my eyes. I pushed myself to my feet, brushing uselessly at the wrinkles in my suit skirt. I started to cry, the tremors coming from deep in my body, and I turned against the wall, hiding my face.
He didn’t say anything, but I was too wrapped up in my own misery to care. He might have left and I wouldn’t have noticed. But he didn’t leave. He put his hand on the back of my neck, slipping it under my hair, cupping my neck.
“What can I do?” he asked softly. “How can I make it better for you?”
I tried to take a breath, to stop the crying. “You can’t.”
“The baby. It is my baby?” He was leaning on the wall, next to me, and in anger, I moved away, so that I was a yard away from him, my back still against the wall. I needed the support.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .” he said softly.
“Yes, it’s yours. You’re the only man . . . you’re the only one.” I turned my head away from him.
“I did not mean that,” he said, stretching his hand across the wall to me, touching my shoulder.
“What did you mean?” Still I didn’t look at him.
“I want . . . I think I have always wanted . . . to take care of you. I don’t think you know this. That time, when we were kids and we took your dress . . . I could not look you in the face. Now, it is the same. I cannot look you in the face. I have violated you. It is a revolting thing for me . . . and I have not acted honorably. I hoped . . . you would go away. Out of harm’s way. Away from me. Who could not take care of you. And now, there is my baby.”
“Our baby.”
“Yes. Who will take care of this baby?”
“No one.” I pushed myself away from the wall. I walked to the middle of the floor and picked up my small purse where I had dropped it. I opened it, fumbling with the catch, and looked at myself in the mirror in the flap. I couldn’t see anything.
“If I can, I’ll get rid of it. Sydney knows a doctor. If it’s too late”—I swallowed, fighting the nausea that first statement had made in me—“I’ll go back to the States. Have it and put it up for adoption. You don’t have to worry about it. I just thought you should know.” I looked around the room. “Where’s my hat?”
“There,” he said, pointing next to a tall pile of folded mats.
I picked the hat up and went to the door. I knew what I had to do.
When I got home, I telephoned Sydney’s doctor. It wasn’t too late and I made an appointment for the next morning. By this time tomorrow, I thought, my hand still on the receiver, it would all be over. There was some comfort in that.
I had to change. We were dining with the Bushmullers that evening and going on to a concert. Beethoven. I wondered how I could sit through it. Well, I would have to.
I HAD MADE my plans and expected no surprises, but when I came down to leave that evening, Christian stood in the center of the entry hall, his uniform stark against the black and white tiles. My father came out of his study to greet him. Daddy was also in black and white, dressed for dinner. Black and white. Everything should be so simple, so black and white. And red, I added, catching a glimpse of Christian’s armband. Blood-red.
They both looked up at me as I walked down the stairs.
“Good evening,” I said to Christian and waited for an explanation of his presence.
“May I speak to you?” he said.
“All right.” I felt lethargic, exhausted, and, underneath it all, fearful of tomorrow morning. “Come with me. Will you excuse us, Daddy?” I started to move away.
“No,” said Christian, surprising me, grabbing my hand and stopping me. “I would prefer you to be present, sir. Please.”
My father nodded and allowed Christian to lead us both into the sitting room. Christian let go of my hand and walked to the middle of the square of sofas, standing in front of the fireplace.
“Would you like a drink?” asked my father politely, while I just stood where Christian had left me.
“No, no, thank you. This won’t take long.” The fall afternoon was cool, and Rick had laid a fire. It was burning brightly, the flames reflected in the gloss of Christian’s boots.
“I must say I did not expect to see you again,” Daddy said, walking into the square. He did not sit down.
“I did not expect to return. I meant to spare you further association with me. But circumstances have changed, and so I am here to ask to marry your daughter.”
For a moment, my very articulate father was speechless, but only for a moment.
“How can you believe she would agree to this? Unless you’ve been sneaking around behind my back,” my father said, controlling his anger, turning to face me.
“No, Daddy. I know nothing of this.”
“Well, then, Mayr, you see it is useless.” I wasn’t watching them. To me, the decision was made and any further discussion was a waste of time. I couldn’t understand why Christian was here. I could hear pity in my father�
��s voice. “You do see, don’t you?”
“I’m pregnant, Daddy,” I said softly, not raising my head, speaking to the floor. “He made me pregnant. But it’s all right. I’m going to have—I’m going to fix it all tomorrow morning. Sydney found me a good doctor. I trust him. It’ll be all right. No one will know. Don’t worry. I’ll go back to the States afterward. I promise.”
I turned and headed for the door, then stopped. “Daddy, I don’t feel like the Bushmullers or Beethoven tonight. Could you make an excuse for me?”
“Sally, what has happened?” my father said, coming around the sofa toward me. “What the hell has been going on?”
“Please, Daddy, don’t. Not yet. You can yell at me later. Let me get through tomorrow. You can ask me anything then. I’ll be good.”
I was at the door, my hand on the knob, when Christian spoke.
“I love you, Sally,” he said, his voice taking a moment to reach me. It took me another moment to comprehend the meaning of what he had said.
I raised my head and turned. He still stood in front of the fireplace and I walked slowly to him, I grew warmer, as though it were Christian whose presence warmed me and not the fire. I stopped a few feet from him and waited.
“I love you,” he said deliberately. “And I want to marry you. I don’t want you to abort or give away our child. I want our child, Sally. I want you.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, I saw tears.
“I always have.”
Still I waited. There was more I needed to hear. His eyes flicked behind me to my father, then back to my face, concentrating on me. “It is why what happened, happened. I am sorry . . . and I am not sorry. Do you understand?”
I took a step toward him, bending my head back to look up into his face. I searched but found nothing but love there.
Then my eyes fell to his uniform, to the collar tabs with the insignia of his rank, the bright red-and-white armband. I raised my eyes to his again and shook my head, although it took all my will power and resolve to do so.
“I can’t,” I said. “I can’t.”
“Do you love me?” he whispered.
The Last Innocent Hour Page 37