The Last Innocent Hour

by Margot Abbott

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” continued my father. “I’m leaving for my dinner now and wondered if you wanted me to ask Rick to come back for you?”

  “No, thank you, we’ll take a cab.” I tried backing off Christian’s lap, but he put his arms around me.

  “Good. Well, good night.”

  “Good night, Daddy,” I said. “Stop,” I whispered, pushing against Christian’s chest.

  “Don’t you. . .?”

  “Stop, please,” I said, unfolding my legs, managing to get out of the chair. I got tangled in my skirt and nearly fell. Christian leaned to catch me, but I avoided his hand. “I’m okay. Just shaky.” I pulled the straps of the dress up and walked into the bathroom.

  I was drying myself when he knocked on the door. I opened it. He was leaning against the jamb, one hand clutching his undone pants, the other dangling a pale-gray satin pair of underpants. “Yours, I believe?” he said.

  I snatched them from him and slammed the door. He laughed.

  I SAT AT my dressing table again and Christian began to change into his dress uniform, piece by piece.

  “Is this the way it’s supposed to be?” I said in a very small voice. In the mirror, I watched him pull on and button his pants. He looked over at me as he took a shirt out of a drawer. He put it on over his head, leaving the buttons done up, then came over to me, the cuffs flopping about his wrists.

  He put his hands on my shoulders. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, after thinking for a moment. I met his eyes in the mirror. “It’s not the way I imagined.”

  “How was that?”

  I searched for a description of something I could hardly explain to myself. “We’re so . . . wild.”

  “It’s all your fault, you’re so luscious.”

  “That’s the baby,” I said, letting go of him and turning around.

  “I know.” He leaned over me, slipping his hand down the front of my dress, fondling my breast.

  I twisted toward him, not to dislodge his hand, but to lift my arms to bring him down to sit next to me and kiss me.

  “This is crazy,” I murmured.

  “I know,” he said again.

  “Maybe we should give up.”

  “Stay home.”

  “For days.”

  “Get it out of our systems.”

  “We won’t be able to when the baby comes.”

  “No,” he said, pulling back from me. “And we won’t be able to get all dressed up and go dancing.”

  “You’re right.” We laughed at each other and he got up to finish dressing and I turned around to face the mirror and repair my makeup.

  We should have stayed home, but we thought we had time, you see. I paused, the lipstick tube in my hand, remembering what he had said about his application for a visa for London sitting on Heydrich’s desk. I watched him buttoning his cuffs and was heartened by the ordinariness of the sight.

  I didn’t know that we had run out of time.

  WE WENT TO a tiny new, very chic nightclub called the Blue Parrot. It was done, as expected, in bright blues and greens. The waiters, all handsome young men, wore midriff shirts with big ruffled sleeves and tight pants. An aviary filled with exotic birds, including some blue parrots, comprised one wall. I had heard—from Sydney, I think—that the floor show was very erotic, but tasteful. We didn’t see much of it, although it was in full feather as Christian and I were shown to our table. A trio of dark-skinned people, two men and one girl, as far as I could see, were doing some sort of dance to drums and a flute. They were dressed in feathers and body paint, and not much of either.

  I laughed and covered my face and Christian, amused at my embarrassment, leaned across the little table. “You’re a fine one to be blushing.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I laughed.

  “Look, we should try that. All you need is a feather. Ooo, I wonder if that hurts.”

  “Christian, stop. That’s terrible. Turn around. Don’t look.” I waved my hand at him and he turned back to the table, laughing with me at our silliness. Even if the girl hadn’t come along and taken our photograph I would remember that moment so clearly, the teasing, the attraction we felt for each other, and how handsome he was, how beautiful he made me feel when he looked at me. I think he was happy, as he leaned forward, his elbows on the table, holding my hand in both of his, about to kiss it.

  “Good evening, my dear young married friends.”

  And we both looked up to see General Heydrich standing before us, blocking our view of the feathers. Christian stood up, instantly sober and distant.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said.

  “I am happy to see you are enjoying yourselves,” Heydrich said, enunciating the English very carefully. His eyes were very bright and he stood very straight, very controlled. But as straight as he stood, he leaned at an angle, as though the floor weren’t flat. “I am alone,” he continued. “May I join you?”

  “Of course, General,” my polite husband said, raising his hand to attract one of the waiters so another chair could be brought.

  “Thank you, Mayr.” Heydrich sat down in Christian’s chair. “What are you drinking?” He grimaced when I raised my champagne flute. “Whiskey, faggot,” he said to the bare-midriffed waiter who had brought the extra chair. The waiter flushed, but faced with Heydrich’s uniform and rank, turned away quickly.

  Christian seemed about to reach after the man, but stifled the gesture. We exchanged bland but meaningful looks: dismay, irritation at not left being alone, and caution.

  “You two are rarely seen these days. Is this a special occasion? Or are the pleasures of the married bed beginning to fade?”

  A funny noise escaped my mouth, a snicker, and I covered my mouth.

  “Hardly,” said Christian, his jaw hardening.

  “Ah, I see,” said the general, looking at us, one at a time, with eyes as cold as a snake’s. The waiter arrived with his whiskey and Heydrich knocked it down and shoved the glass at the young man’s stomach. “Another. Well, how nice that you are so happy.” The word “nice” was said with a sneer.

  “Where is Lina?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “At home, I suppose. I often go out without her. She does not enjoy the kind of . . . relaxation I require. Not every husband is as assiduous about taking his wife about in public as Mayr appears to be. Of course, you have been married a short time only and we will not be able to see just what kind of a husband he is until some time has passed. He may revert back to form then.” He leaned forward. “Your husband accompanied me often on my evenings out. He was very handy, being so damned handsome. I have missed him in recent forays, but I understand how he is demanded elsewhere. Oh, but how stupid of me, he is leaving the country with you, is he not?”

  “For a holiday, General. We’re going on a family holiday at New Year’s. Is that a problem?”

  “No, of course not. A holiday. Is that really all it is, Mayr?” He leaned toward Christian, who couldn’t look at him.

  “Yes, General,” he muttered.

  “And you’ll be back at your desk, bright and chipper, all spit and polished, the following week?”

  “Yes, General.”

  “Ah, good. Good.” Heydrich swung around and focused on me. “Now, my dear Sally, I’m not saying I don’t believe Mayr here, but I just want to congratulate you. Just in case.”

  “For what, General?”

  “If—just if, mind you—Mayr doesn’t come back . . . well, what a love affair. He would be giving up so much—his job, his country, his honor. I hope you’re worth it.” He drank the rest of his drink and raised his hand for another.

  “It would be very un-German of Mayr to abandon his country because of a girl, however good a lay she is. We are a romantic people, I grant you, but our greatness comes because we never allow sentiment to get in the way of our true vocation.”

  “And what would that be?” I asked icily.

  “Sally,” said Christian warni
ngly.

  “Power, my dear,” said Heydrich. He put his arm on the table, extending his hand to touch me lightly with his fingers under my chin. I jerked my head away. “The pursuit of power, the wielding of it.” He dropped his hand to his glass, noticing with irritation that it was still empty. “It is, of course, my error. I believed young Mayr to be as driven, as hungry, as I was as a young man. It was my error, but I must confess, I hate making errors.” He spat out the word “hate.”

  “We all do sometime, General,” I said, as though this were a normal conversation.

  “Yes, my dear, Sally, we do.” And he looked at me with such venom that I drew back from him. I remembered what the woman at the whorehouse had said, about his hurting the girls.

  Heydrich held up a hand. “Ah, listen, a tune I recognize. I Only Have Eyes for You, isn’t it?” He stood and bowed slightly from his waist to Christian. “May I dance with your wife? She and I have things to discuss.”

  He held out a hand out to me. He frightened me and my fear made me angry. I nearly refused. A glance at Christian didn’t help. He wouldn’t meet my eyes, picking up his glass and draining it, and I thought that Heydrich’s accusations about losing his honor and running away had hit their mark. I reached across the table and touched Christian’s hand. He glanced at me. I tried to convey without words that I was strong enough for this encounter.

  Giving my hand to Heydrich, I followed him through the crowd to the tiny dance floor, which was as packed as the rest of the club. The patrons were a mix of uniforms, with dinner suits sprinkled among them. The women, mostly young and well-dressed, displayed the makeup, red fingernails, and curled hair that Himmler continually encouraged his men to reject.

  “You look very beautiful, Sally,” the general said, not looking at me.

  For a moment, I thought I had not heard him, he spoke so kindly, even with sweetness, as though he really meant what he said. “I think you are very happy, aren’t you? It shows. And, of course, your pregnancy is making you look lovelier, at least now. It’s interesting how some women blossom and others look as though they have been invaded by parasites that sap their strength.”

  He pulled me closer, but not much, not enough for me to protest. He was, as ever, a very smooth dancer, piloting me through the many other couples, his hand on my waist guiding me expertly.

  “Have you given up your fencing?” he asked.

  “Yes. It’s not safe.”

  “Of course. Tell me, how is he in bed?”

  “What?” I jerked back from him; he held me in place.

  “How is Mayr in bed? He must be keeping you happy, but I imagine he’s a, well, uncomplicated lover. He seems to lack imagination. Am I right?”

  I tried to pull away and he held me even more tightly. “Calm down, for God’s sake. It is a mystery to me how prudish you are. I suppose it’s your being an American. Tell me—if you enjoy sex so much, as I think you do, why are you so squeamish about talking about it? You can understand why I am interested. You won’t talk, reacting like an outraged virgin, yet you seem obscenely complacent with sexual satisfaction. I wonder if your husband can handle you.”

  I stopped dancing, dropping my hands from his shoulder and hand. “This is none of your damn business.” I spun around, my beaded skirt slapping heavily against my legs. I started off the dance floor.

  Heydrich grabbed my arm and turned me around, pulling me back against him. People watched us warily, out of the corners of their eyes. I twisted my head to see if Christian was watching, but there were too many people between us.

  “My dear, you shouldn’t be so sensitive. I know everything about you already. More than you imagine. Do you think Mayr would have approached you in the first place if I hadn’t told him to? He’s a fine young man, but let’s face it, he has no—”

  “Don’t you dare say anything against him,” I said, snarling at him. “And let go of me. You’re hurting me. I can’t see why you need to ask me questions if you know everything already. Let go of me or I will cause an enormous scene. Believe me, I would love to. I may be prudish and naive, but I am the daughter of—”

  “I am sorry,” he said, smiling, stopping my flow of words, but letting go of my arm. He then ran his fingers lightly over the bruise he had left, making me shiver. His eyes glittered, the pupils huge, the whites edged with red. There was nothing else wrong with the way he looked, his hair was combed, his shave close, and he smelled faintly of his usual lemon after-shave. But, his eyes were all wrong. They were chilling, especially when he smiled. I stood up straighter.

  “Your loyalty is commendable,” he went on. “I wish his were. I see where the backbone in your marriage comes from. Ah, there, I’ve done it again. Insulted him. Now, let’s finish our dance. I promise not to say anything more to upset you.” He held out his hand again, and I looked at him defiantly. “Come along, Sally. Dance with me. I promise to behave. If not, I’ll start a scene. And believe me, you would not want that.”

  We finished the dance and the next one, and he said not another word, holding me properly, guiding me smoothly. As long as he was silent, all was well. He confused me, flashing back and forth between charm and cruelty. And although I would never admit it to anyone, this seesaw of his behavior interested me almost as much as it frightened me. Or perhaps it was because he frightened me that he interested me. Interested. Hell, enthralled me. If I admit that, my own guilt in what happened is all the more evident. I could have walked away from him anytime during that evening, but I didn’t. I let him say those things that shocked and upset me. Still I thought I was safe.

  “You like to manipulate people, don’t you?” I said.

  “Oh, yes.” He looked down at me and smiled. “It’s always interesting with you because I never know exactly how you’ll react. It’s why I’ve pursued our, ah, friendship, shall I call it. I usually don’t make friends with women.”

  “I guess I shouldn’t take what you say personally then.”

  “Oh, but you should. I mean what I say, don’t doubt that.”

  We danced a few minutes in silence and then he said very softly, “You know, accidents can happen anywhere. Here or there, even out of the Reich. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  I didn’t answer, waiting to hear what he was driving at.

  “I understand that you will all be coming back after the New Year, but if you’re not . . . A medical problem, for instance, and you have to rush home to America, and naturally, your husband has to go with you. Your father, still the ambassador, would have to come back alone, wouldn’t he? Don’t, my dear. Listen calmly to me, I’m trying to help, to offer you a suggestion.”

  “You are threatening my father.”

  “No, I am not. I am merely discussing possibilities and pointing out to you that there might be something you could do to ensure the safety of the people you care for, as well as your own. Ah, the end.”

  The music had stopped, although I hadn’t noticed. He let go of me, perhaps thinking I was ready to listen to his proposition. But I could listen to no more from him, ever. I had reached my limit and I didn’t care, I could listen to no more. I turned and walked away from him.

  “Think about it, Sally,” he said softly, his voice carrying straight to me as I maneuvered through the crush.

  “What is it?” Christian said when he saw my face.

  I picked up my bag. “We’d better leave.”

  Blessedly not asking any questions, Christian stood, threw some money on the table and followed me out. I walked straight out of the club and stood freezing, while I waited for Christian to bring my wrap from the checkroom. I smoothed my long gloves up my arms. My hands were shaking. And, for the first time in months, I thought of Marlene and her elegant mother-in-law and the little girl. What had her name been?

  “Here, love,” Christian said, putting the wrap over my shoulders. It was a white mink cape I had bought, the most expensive piece of clothing I had ever owned, but at that moment I only noticed that it was warm.
r />   “What happened?” said Christian, tucking the ends of his scarf into his overcoat.

  “Do you remember that family, the women and the little girl, we put on the train for Zurich?” He frowned, thinking. I couldn’t believe he had forgotten them. “The young woman was arrested and you got her out.”

  “Oh, yes, the Jews,” Christian said.

  I stared at him. Yes, the Jews, dear, sweet husband. I closed my eyes. I felt as though there were a crack in the universe, in my universe.

  “Let’s walk a little,” I said, wanting to get away. I set off at a brisk pace and Christian hurried to catch up with me.

  “Sally, tell me what happened. Did he do something to you?”

  “No, no.” That’s good. Heydrich. Think of him, not Christian or the little girl. She was safe now, with her mummy and daddy and grandmother, safe in Zurich. “He just talked. Oh, Christian,” I said as the memory of Heydrich’s poison came fully back. “Did he tell you to . . . see me? Did he? What’s it matter. Oh, damn him, damn him.” I stopped and half-turned in a tight, unfinished circle of frustration.

  “God, Sally,” Christian said, his breath white in the cold. “What did he say?”

  “All sorts of things. He said all sorts of things. Annie!”

  “What?”

  “Annie was the little girl’s name. Remember, you carried her onto the train. You were so sweet with her.”

  “What the hell are you talking about them for? Christ, it’s too cold to talk out here.”

  “He wants to hurt us. He hates us.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I wasn’t really afraid before. I am now. I think he’d do anything, say anything. Why? Christian, why?”

  An ugly expression crossed his face. “Oh, shit. Sorry. Come on, down here.” He put his arm around my waist and led me quickly down the street toward the lights of a small cafe.

  A tiny brightly lit den welcomed us, the green walls decorated with photos of film stars torn from magazines. There were three small tables covered with musty-looking oilcloth covers. The proprietor, talking to a heavyset man when we came in, looked disapprovingly at Christian in his dress uniform and me in my white mink and silver dress, but they said nothing.