The Last Innocent Hour

by Margot Abbott

“A draw?” he said. “No, then I will not get what I want.”

  “What will you do with him?”

  “Don’t know. Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “How useful he is after he hears of your death,” he said, bringing the gun up. “And it has to do with so much more than Christian, doesn’t it? I really can’t forgive the trouble you’ve given me.”

  “But I—”

  “Shhh,” he said softly, running the barrel of his gun over my lips. “Don’t protest. It’s too late for that now.” He moved the gun away and kissed me. I could barely breathe with his hand still tight around my throat, his lips and tongue horrible on my mouth.

  “Why must you kill me?” I croaked out, when he lifted his

  head.

  “Because you’ll win if I don’t.”

  “But if you shoot me, surely you’ll be accused.”

  “Ah, no,” he said. “I’m the head of the police. I’ll just find someone. An intruder . . .” His eyes changed, boring down on me.

  I closed my eyes against the sight, giving up, slumping against the tile wall, waiting. My mind was full of images, but mostly I thought of the child in my womb. I covered her with my hands.

  Heydrich’s hand on my throat loosened, moving down to my shoulder. I could hear him breathing heavily, a horrible sound. He pulled my skirt up and ran his gun along my thigh and I opened my eyes. He was very close to me and I realized, if he was going to kill me, he was going to do something to me first, something with the gun.

  “No!” I screamed and he hit me with the gun, slamming it against the side of my head. It stunned me and I fell sideways, sliding down the, slippery wall. Heydrich grabbed hold of my jacket and tugged viciously at it. The buttons gave and I hit the ground, banging my elbow hard on the tile floor. I cried out at the pain.

  He ignored me, pulling my skirt up. My head was exploding, but I tried to stop his hands. He hit me again, backhanding me with all of his strength. I felt the cold, clammy air of the shower room on my bare skin. I think I was crying because he hit me again.

  “Stop sniveling,” he said, speaking to me for the first time in German. “It doesn’t become you.”

  Somewhere in my mind, in the place where it still worked and thought, I was beginning to feel some hope. If he raped me, perhaps he wouldn’t kill me. Surely, being raped, as horrible as it was, was better than being dead. Surely, the baby would live through it. His hands were on me and I tried to give in, not to fight, not to feel. He pulled my clothes . . . there was coldness . . . the tiles . . . he kissed me again, hurting my mouth where he had hit me.

  Then I felt the gun.

  Hope left. Heydrich said something but by then my mind was too full of blood and pain and I couldn’t understand his words.

  I didn’t understand anything, fleeing gratefully down into the darkness, letting my mind go, letting go of my body, of the baby. Good-bye, little girl, my mind cried out, as I fell through the bloody darkness, sinking down and down and down to meet the pain that rose up to greet me, the fear and the pain overwhelming my body and my mind, growing until there was nothing left of me, Sally. Pain. He obliterated me. Turned me to pain. Pain. Is all I was.

  Is, sometimes, all I am.

  BOOK THREE

  BERLIN, 1946

  CHAPTER 1

  THERE WAS SILENCE in the room. Sally had been talking for hours, telling Timothy Hastings things she hadn’t told Colonel Eiger. Which was nearly everything. All her secrets. Timothy Hastings knew it all now and she was too tired and drained to care. She would eventually, she knew, but not right now. Right now, her throat hurt from too much talking and too many cigarettes.

  She sat on the floor in the front room of Tim’s apartment, her back against the wall, her knees drawn up to support her elbows. She looked at her hands. They held a cigarette. They were also shaking. She drew the cigarette to her lips, dropping ash on her shirt.

  “What a filthy habit.” She stubbed out the cigarette in the metal ashtray, and brushed off her shirt. She wore civilian clothes, a white shirt, navy cardigan, and khaki wool slacks. “So,” she said, brushing her hands together and leaning her head against the wall, “that’s that.”

  Tim Hastings lounged in an armchair across the room from her, his legs stretched out in front of him. His hands were folded in front of his face. Sally was lost in her memories, and she didn’t look at him. She lightly touched the small, almost invisible scar under her left eye with her fingertips. She never even saw it anymore when she looked in the mirror. Of course, she rarely looked at her face in the mirror.

  “Who found you?” asked Tim.

  “Somebody. Horst, I think.” Sally shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d just been raped . . .”

  “Sally.” Tim tried to interrupt, but she had to say it, had to get the fact out, the horror.

  “Raped with a gun, a gun, you understand. And now I suppose you’ve figured out everything, why I’m so . . .”

  “Sally,” he said again and this time she stopped. She was too tired. “Did you try to contact Mayr?” Tim asked after a long, quiet moment.

  She shook her head. “I wrote a note to Lisa after I left.”

  “So you don’t know what happened to him?”

  Again, she shook her head. “When I got out of the hospital, the bastard doctor who they got to take care of me said he was real sorry but he didn’t think I’d ever be able to have kids, considering the damage, well . . .” She made a tight gesture with her hand. “Nothing,” she added as though that explained everything.

  Tim didn’t comment but stood, stretched, and went into the kitchen where she could hear him open the refrigerator and clink glasses. Nice, normal sounds. Sally pulled herself up and went to push back the curtains. It was dark out. The window faced the back of the apartment building and the usual Berlin landscape greeted her: gray rubble, desolation, barren ground.

  Like me, she thought. Like I feel.

  Sally stared at it, her arms folded, remembering the Tiergarten and the little park in front of the embassy, the linden trees, all the greenery the city used to boast of, all burned and exploded and torn up and plowed under, all gone.

  Tim handed her a glass without speaking. She drank. It was vodka and tonic, with a lot of ice, and it tasted delicious. He stood next to her, not touching her.

  “Do you think it will ever grow back?” she asked.

  “Already is. Weeds first, then, when the rubble is cleaned up, they’ll start planting.”

  Sally looked sideways at Tim, still standing next to her at the dark window. He seemed familiar and comfortable in his baggy khaki pants and his old plaid shirt, the shirttail hanging out, the sleeves rolled up, and what she wanted almost more than a night of dreamless sleep was for him to hold her. But there was another question to ask.

  She took a deep breath and made herself move away from him, to the footstool where she sat down, the ice clinking against the glass as she moved.

  “Do you think I should forgive him?”

  “You’ve been through a lot,” he said, his voice level, friendly, but impersonal. “I think your will to survive is formidable. And the person you really should forgive is yourself.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” she said nastily. He sighed and they were silent for a while. She rolled the cold glass between her hands, then drained it and put it on the end table next to the easy chair behind her.

  “I’m sorry.” Sally’s apology hung in the air. She looked at Tim, as he raised his glass and drank. He lowered the glass and studied the contents for a moment.

  “May I ask you something?” She nodded, wrapping her arms around herself. “Do you still love him?”

  “Huh?” she said dumbly.

  His gaze met hers across the room. He was utterly serious. “Do you still feel anything—besides anger—at Christian? If he turned up, all in one piece, how would you feel about him?”

  “Feel? I feel nothing,” she said, hunching forward, a picture flashing thro
ugh her mind: the inn, how his skin had glowed in the light on his skin after he’d shed the hard, black shell of his uniform. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stop the image, hating herself for it. “Nothing.”

  “I don’t think that’s the truth.”

  “Well, too bad.” Her teeth had begun to chatter and she couldn’t catch her breath. She held tightly to herself, feeling her heart hammering at a frightening rate. “T-T-Tim,” she said, trying to look up at him. She gasped for air, panicking when she couldn’t breathe. She shook so hard, she could feel her joints grinding together, and the sensation added to her panic.

  Tim stood in front of her, speaking to her, but she couldn’t hear him through the clashing of her teeth. Terrible sounds were coming from her mouth and she fought them.

  He slapped her. Once. Then again.

  The second slap registered and Sally’s surprised body gasped for breath as she felt the stinging pain against her face.

  “Breathe,” Tim said, his hand on her back. She sat hunched over her knees. “C’mon,” he said, “sit up. Give your lungs room.” She obeyed him, still concentrated inwardly, not believing the beautiful, easy luxury of air flowing richly into her lungs. She was still shaking, but not as violently.

  “Be right back,” Tim said.

  Sally stared at the carpet, her mouth open, panting, feeling more at odds with her body than she had since she tried to kill herself. Maybe this was its revenge on her.

  Tim was back and knelt next to her. “Open your mouth. C’mon, I’ve got a tranquilizer. You’re okay. It’s nothing lethal.”

  Sally took the pill, holding it on her tongue until she could sip from the glass he held for her. Her teeth chattered against the rim and she pulled back, afraid of breaking the glass.

  “Did you swallow? All right, just relax. You’re okay.” He spoke quietly, calmly, sitting next to her, rubbing her back as though she were a dog spooked by a train whistle.

  Sally lowered her head, trying to do as he said. She closed her eyes and leaned against him, feeling her tremors slow down, stop. She suddenly jerked, a last nervous seizure. It embarrassed her.

  “It’s okay,” he murmured.

  Sally focused on Tim’s hand touching her arm. She remembered feeling it on her forehead in the airport and again on the plane.

  “You’ve tried to take care of me since you first saw me,” she said, her words slurring. She passed her fingers over her mouth.

  “Why? Don’t you think you need it?” he kidded.

  “Since—since the airport. The storm.”

  “Yeah. Well, I was interested in you. And you obviously needed some help. Although you were sure crabby about accepting it. But there you were, your bag under your head, in your brand-new uniform, laid out on that bench. I couldn’t resist. And I was curious.”

  “Bet you’re sorry. I’ve been nothing but trouble to you since, haven’t I?”

  “You bet,” he said, tightening his arm around her. Laying her head against his shoulder, she muttered, “My bones are melting.” She closed her eyes. Time flew. Something she had said, about not feeling; what a stupid statement. “You’re right,” she muttered. “I’m not an unfeeling girl, am I?” She opened her eyes. “Except now. I feel numb.”

  “I imagine you do.”

  “Yeah,” she giggled, the drug blurring all the edges. “I feel fine.”

  “C’mon, you better get some sleep.” He stood, pulling her up with him. “I’ll use the couch and you can have my bed. It’s a mess, but the sheets are clean.” She let him lead her into his bedroom.

  “Can you do this on your own?” he asked, holding up a folded pair of pajamas.

  “Um-hmm.” She nodded, sitting down on his messy bed. She pushed her loafers off and, bending over, pulled her socks off as well. “See,” she said, sitting up, but immediately fell back on the bed. She giggled again. What had he said about love? About loving someone?

  “Sally. . .”

  “Did you? No, I can . . . see.” She unbuttoned her slacks and pushed them down as far as she could reach. “Help,” she said, and he obliged by pulling them off her legs. “Thanks.”

  Sally fumbled with the buttons of her blouse, waving Tim away. As fuzzy as she was, from deep inside her, sober Sally made her do the buttons on her own. Her bra was too much, though, and she finally let him help her after several attempts to undo the hooks on the back.

  He leaned her against his shoulder, as he put her arms into the pajama top and buttoned it up. Sally, feeling herself recede into a warm, fuzzy darkness, put an arm around Tim’s neck so as not to slide too quickly. That part about her loving someone bothered her. Christian. That’s who. Did she still love Christian?

  “I don’t think it’s true, Timmy. Okay?” she muttered. She didn’t hear his answer.

  THE DOOR OPENED, letting some light into the room, light that sneaked under the covers, into her eyes. She had been crying in her sleep, was still crying and, for a moment, didn’t know where she was.

  Tim’s room. She was in Tim’s room. In Berlin. Sally pulled her head up from the pillow. She could see Tim’s silhouette against, the door. “Timmy,” she said.

  “I heard you crying,” Tim said in a sleepy voice. He sat on the bed and put his hand on her shoulder.

  “It hurts, Timmy.” She was shaking and she couldn’t stop the tears. The pain. “It hurts. I’m sorry,” she added, her hands on her face, trying to stop. Trying not to cry, not to feel.

  “I know,” he said. “I know. Don’t fight so hard. Here. You need to sleep.” He gave her another pill, then got into the bed with her, wrapping his arms around her. Her back was to him and as he fit his long legs against hers, his solid warmth calmed her. “Shhh,” he said, his hand against her head. “It’s gonna be all right, I promise.”

  “Everybody’s dead,” she said, the words barely making it past her chattering teeth. “Mama. Eddie. My father. Lisa. The baby and Marlene and Marta. Even Hey-Hey . . .” She gave up. “Everybody’s dead. The city. All the babies. The trees. Everybody’s dead.”

  “You’re not, Sally,” said Tim.

  “Except . . .” said Sally, pausing to try and control her chattering teeth. A tremor passed through her and she clenched her jaw. “Except him,” she finally said.

  “He can’t hurt you, Sally,” Tim said, his hand warm against her cheek and forehead. “I promise.” And he kissed her temple. She felt it as though it were a kiss given to someone far away from her, but his concern reached her and she laced her fingers through his and held on to him.

  “I don’t want to die, Timmy,” she said. “I don’t want to die. I know how it feels. I don’t want to die.”

  “You’re not going to die, sweetheart. Nobody’s going to hurt you,” he said. “I’m here.”

  “I’m so scared.”

  “I’m here.”

  “Don’t leave me, Timmy,” she murmured, not feeling him kiss her again.

  She slept.

  WHEN SHE AWOKE, the room was filled with sunlight. She lay on her back in the rumpled bedclothes. She felt awful. Tim was gone. She turned her head, using all the energy she could muster to look at the small clock on the dresser across the room. It was eleven o’clock. She closed her eyes. Her head felt full of sand and she ached all over, from her jaw to her ankles.

  The door opened and Tim came in. He wore the khaki pants he’d had on the day before and a clean but wrinkled white shirt. He was barefoot, his hair tousled, and he carried a coffee mug.

  “How you doing’?” He put the mug down on the dresser and went over to touch her cheek. His shirt was unbuttoned and she could see his bare chest.

  “I should get up,” she said and swallowed hard. Her throat hurt.

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s Sunday. You want some coffee? You hungry?”

  “I should get up.”

  “Sally, stay. I don’t mind having a half-naked woman in my bed. Even without me. Stay. Let me wait on you. Makes me feel useful. What do you want
? Coffee? Toast? Steak? Caviar? Gin?”

  “Coffee would be nice. And could I have some water?”

  “Your wish,” he said, bowing, “et cetera, et cetera. Oh, I found you a clean towel, which was a major accomplishment, and it’s on the sink in the biffy. Which is thataway. I think there’s a glass in there, too. Those pills do make you thirsty.”

  He left the door slightly ajar so that Sally could hear him in the kitchen. It was comforting, hearing the sound of water running, of someone moving around in another room. Sally sat up, pausing to let the wooziness in her head pass. She waited a moment until it cleared, then she went into the bathroom. She considered a shower, but hadn’t the energy, so she washed her face and brushed her hair, hoping Tim wouldn’t mind if she used his brush. Finding some tooth powder, she used it on her finger to clean her teeth. She drank two glasses of water.

  She looked in the mirror, meeting her eyes; she felt old. She didn’t care. Something was different; she could see it in her face. She bent her head, admonishing herself not to cry.

  In the bedroom, Tim was straightening out the covers. Sally crawled back into bed.

  She managed only a few sips of the coffee he had brought her and handed the cup back to him. “Tin sorry, Timmy, I feel so . . .” She closed her eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by a sense of sadness and exhaustion. And again she slept.

  When she opened her eyes again, it was dark in the room. She lay still, thinking: Tim’s room . . . she was still in Tim’s room. She wondered how long she had been sleeping, how many days. She got up and felt her way into the bathroom. The light didn’t work. A power failure, then. She used the toilet, and ran tap water over her hands, cupping them to sip. She was very thirsty. She felt around for a towel, but couldn’t find one and used her pajama top.

  Hands out in front of her, she slowly made her way across the bedroom, feeling clothing under her feet, to the door. Along the way she hit the corner of the bed.

  “Whoops!” she whispered.

  The living room was dark but there was light from the nearly full moon, slipping in through the patterns of the curtains. Sally could see the sofa and the long shape of Tim’s body.