The Last Innocent Hour

by Margot Abbott

  “An unpleasant memory,” he said. “Not Mayr?”

  “No,” said Sally. She took a chance. “His boss. The Chief.” Gunther’s face was poker-straight, then a flicker of understanding showed in his eyes. “The Chief. You knew him?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “We played music together.”

  “Ah. He was reported to be good.”

  “He was.”

  “About Mayr—is he wanted for a crime? Would he be tried?” Gunther asked in a flat, bored voice. He was leaning against the ironstone sink.

  “I don’t know,” said Sally. “That’s nothing to do with me. I want to know about him for personal reasons. I’d like to know if he’s alive. At least to know that.”

  “You cared about him?” Gunther asked, still in that calm voice.

  “I did,” said Sally, looking into his eyes. She didn’t have to lie about that, but the pretense of the situation was making her very nervous. She was sure this man could see through her. He held her eyes for a long time and then sighed.

  “The last time I saw Mayr was in April or May of 1944,” he said.

  “That long ago.” Sally was disappointed. He hadn’t believed her. She picked up her glass. He watched her, his eyes, eyes as dark as his hair, unreadable.

  “Were you in the SS?” Sally asked bluntly.

  Gunther barked a short, unamused laugh. “My dear Fraulein,” he said, shaking his head. “You don’t suppose I would tell you if I had been?” She smiled, joining in his unfunny joke. “But no, I was not. I was in the Luftwaffe. I met Mayr on leave.

  “You knew him before the war? You were lovers?” he asked matter-of-factly.

  “That’s none of your business,” Sally said sharply.

  “Ahh,” he said, and she knew she had given everything away.

  “What were you doing in Berlin?” he asked, standing close enough to her so that she could smell him. Or his clothing, which stank of the harsh cleaning fluid that could not camouflage the sweat and smoke and other smells that had sunk into the very fibers of the cloth. He himself was clean; she could see that. But his clothing would never be.

  “My father was the ambassador,” she said for the millionth time. It would be the perfect epitaph on her grave. “My father was the ambassador.”

  “I see,” he said.

  She smiled sadly. “Christian never spoke of me? I would have thought. . .” Her voice trailed off and she picked up her purse. The tears were not hard to summon and she pulled a handkerchief out of her bag. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just hoped. . .”

  “I’m sorry, Fraulein,” Gunther said.

  Sally hitched her bag over her shoulder and, thanking Gunther, walked to the door.

  “If . . .” he said, stopping her. “If I think of anything else, or if I hear something, how would I contact you?”

  Sally turned slowly and stared at him a long moment. He stared back impassively. She handed him her card.

  “I came back to find him,” she whispered. “Please, help me.” And she sounded so convincing; she wasn’t sure at all that she wasn’t telling the truth.

  Sally stood on the front steps of the apartment building pulling on her gloves, glad to see that her jeep was still there. The cold afternoon was quickly fading into an even colder night. She walked down the steps, noting that there had been further repair done on them since the last time she had visited Annaliese. She heard the front door of the building open behind her.

  “Fraulein Jackson.” Sally turned. Gunther came down the steps toward her, hurriedly buttoning his coat, a Luftwaffe overcoat, the insignia removed and the metal buttons exchanged for ugly fiat wooden ones. “I have something that would interest you.” He spoke casually.

  “And what would that be?”

  “Something to show you,” he said, with a charming smile.

  “What?” she asked, irritated by his manner.

  “A photograph. At my flat. If you would drive us?” She hesitated. “I am helping you with your investigations,” he offered.

  “Yes,” she conceded. “All right. But I’ll stop at the checkpoint to let my CO know where I’ll be.”

  “A prudent action,” he said, his black eyes twinkling in secret amusement, even as his shoulders hunched against the cold.

  After the telephone call at the checkpoint, Gunther directed her to an apartment building in what was once the fashionable section of Charlottenburg. Sally followed him into a large entry hall and up a white marble staircase that corkscrewed majestically up under a leaded skylight, now glassless. Gray evening light slid down through the squares of battered lead, barely touching the walls, throwing shadows into the corners and down the long empty corridors. It was icy cold and their breath showed in the still air. On the fifth floor, they walked down a long hallway where the carpet had been ripped up and the paneling torn from the wall.

  “The Russians,” he said, waving his hand at the torn-up walls, “used it for firewood.” He stopped in front of a double door and pulled a key out of his trouser pocket.

  “Did you live here before?” asked Sally, thinking how elegant the place must have been. Even in its present unhappy state, it still retained an air of fashionable sophistication; as Gunther himself did.

  “Before?” he said, looking up from fitting the key into the lock.

  “The war,” she said. What else would she mean?

  “I am disappointed in you. I would think you understood that questions about those long-ago halcyon days before the war were forbidden,” he said, and pushing open the door, he stepped aside to allow Sally to enter. “I, of course, remember nothing of them. I find it more comfortable that way.”

  Sally gave him a look and walked past him into a small square empty entry hall. The walls were white with an elaborate plaster frieze around the molding. Or rather, they had been; now, they were dingy, gray, and the molding was chipped and cracked.

  Gunther closed and locked the door behind them, then led Sally through a double door, passing quickly through the next room.

  “I live only in here now. It’s easier to heat,” he said, opening another door.

  It must have been a library or study; the walls were covered with empty shelves. There were two tall windows, one boarded up and one boasting half of its glass panes, allowing some waning evening light into the room. Facing the windows was a fireplace with what had once been a beautiful black marble mantel, now horribly disfigured by several gouges and one huge crack.

  “Please,” Gunther said, “sit down. But I’d advise you to keep your coat on. It’s chilly in here. I’ll get the fire going and make us some tea.”

  Sally stood resolutely in the middle of the floor. “I’d rather you showed me the photograph right away. I can’t stay.”

  “Please,” he said, spreading wide his hands. “You are my first guest since . . .” He paused to think. “I can’t remember how long.”

  “I am not your guest,” she said firmly. “Please. The photograph.”

  “Very well.” He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and carefully pulled out a photograph. Wordlessly he held it out to her, and just as silently she took it, angry that he had been able to trick her so easily into coming to his rooms. Still, the photograph was real, and tilting it toward the gray light from the window, she saw it was of a group of people. Gunther leaned over her shoulder.

  “I took this my wedding day,” he said softly. “This is Mimi, my wife. She is dead now.” He pointed to a pretty, youthful woman in a stark suit and a tiny, veiled hat. Next to her, arm in arm, was a handsome dark-haired woman, also in a suit and with a chic turban over her hair. And next to her, with his arm around her waist, looking forthrightly into the camera, his chin raised, looking older and thinner than she remembered him, was Christian. He wore the gray SS uniform issued after the war began, and the way he stood prevented her from identifying his rank. Automatically, Sally turned the photograph over. Nothing. She wished she could study it wit
hout an audience.

  “Perhaps some tea now?” Gunther asked, turning on a light and startling her.

  “No, thank you,” she said, holding the photograph out.

  Languidly, he took it from her and put it on the cracked mantel of the dead fireplace. Then, again, he reached into his jacket. “I have something else you might be interested in,” he said, bringing the object out of his pocket. It glittered in the light.

  From his hand dangled a gold chain with a small charm, which caught the light, winking, bright and warm in the cold, gray room. Sally walked slowly over to Gunther, holding out her hand until the charm, a small gold heart delicately enameled with white and pink flowers, came to rest on her palm. As he let go of it, the thin chain whipped around Sally’s hand.

  It was the locket she had given Christian that last summer at the lake. She had forgotten about it. She opened it, knowing what was inside. Not a picture, but a small dried leaf, a piece of their beloved Lake Sebastian, which she had put into the locket so that Christian might carry it with him always. Had he?

  Even to Lezaky?

  “Where did you get this?” she whispered and looked into Gunther’s dark eyes, vivid in his pale face.

  “You recognize it.”

  “It was mine, from my brother, when I was a kid. I gave it to . . . Did Christian say when, where? You could have taken it from his body.” Gunther’s face was still expressionless. “He gave it to you to prove to me that he’s still alive, didn’t he? Didn’t he?” Sally’s voice rose as she repeated the question. “He knew I’d understand . . .” Her hand closed around the chain and she looked into the shadows of the room, at a screen covered with faded green silk standing in the corner, her senses stretching for a clue, the sound of a foot sliding across the floor, of a man breathing.

  “Please, Gunther, tell me. Please. Is he here? Is there a room back here? Is he in it?” She headed for the screen, determined to force the issue.

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “Gunther, this”—she held up her fist, the gold chain looped around her wrist. “This was a secret between him and me. It is, I think, a token from him. To make me think of those days.”

  Sally slipped the locket into her coat pocket, then sat on the bed so that she was knee to knee with Gunther. “Let me give you something. I have a picture too. A photograph taken in Czechoslovakia, after Heydrich’s murder—during the actions. You know?” She saw from his eyes that he understood what she was alluding to. “If it is Christian, he will be in terrible danger.”

  “But you are the only one who can identify him in this picture?”

  “No, I have other photographs of him. We’re using those as well. The Czech photo shows his rank and outfit; the coloring and size of the man is the same as his. It’s just that the face is not entirely clear. We are very busy and would not be spending so much time on him if the incident weren’t so awful.”

  “And if you were not personally involved,” added Gunther.

  “Yes,” Sally said slowly, “you’re right. Look, I don’t have to see him. It would be better if I didn’t, but please, can’t you tell me if he’s alive and well? That’s all I want. Tell me, Gunther. I don’t blame him. I don’t want revenge.” She frowned and again avoided his gaze.

  “We were young,” she said, and shrugged as though to forgive some trivial youthful indiscretion. “I don’t know what he did afterward, or if he was in charge of that action group. All I know is, I loved him once a great deal. And the anger, the bitterness—it’s gone. But I want to know what happened. Where was he? What happened afterward? Why didn’t he ever contact me or my father? I loved him, Gunther,” she repeated. “I should think he’d want to know that.”

  For a long time, Gunther studied her, then, finally, answered with one word: “Yes.”

  A long exhalation of breath escaped Sally, as though all these years she had been holding back, holding on to something, and now it could be released. “I knew it,” she whispered.

  Gunther held up his hand, his index finger extended like a stern father’s. “I will answer no more questions about his whereabouts. Understand?” Sally nodded. “I do not believe that you could still care for him, after the things he put you through.” Gunther smiled at Sally’s expression. “Yes, he told me. He said—”

  “I don’t want to talk about that. It was a long time ago. It is over,” she said sharply, interrupting him. She picked up her handbag. “I’d better go. I’ve stayed too long.”

  “Tell me one thing,” said Gunther, standing behind her. “Would you help him? If you could?”

  Sally stood, her hand poised above the top button of her coat. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” She turned to face him. He was very close to her. She could smell the cleaning fluid on his clothes again.

  Gunther smiled at her, a horrible, lupine smile, his lips pulled back over his teeth, which looked yellow in contrast to his pale, bluish skin. Sally took a step back from him.

  He touched her arm. “We all knew,” he whispered. “About Heydrich and Christian and you. We all knew. We listened to the stories as though they were a serial in a ladies’ magazine. Christian didn’t know we did. I can tell you, we were disappointed when it ended the way it did. He did not mean for it to, but he lost his temper. He had a terrible temper.”

  “Who?” whispered Sally, leaning away from him, but held by his hand on her arm and by her horrified fascination in what he was saying.

  “The Chief, of course,” replied Gunther.

  “You were SS.”

  He didn’t deny her accusation. Sally tried to take a step away from him, but his hand closed around her arm, stopping her. “We had a very difficult time cleaning up after him generally, but your case was a particularly messy one. We were all sorry about it, truly we were. It was not supposed to end like that.”

  “How? How was it supposed to end?”

  “On the island. Heydrich would finally have you and be done with it. With you and Mayr, that is. Then he could engineer the scandal he needed to undermine your father.”

  “My father?”

  “Your father’s criticisms of the government were becoming untenable—he had to go. Well, the Chief certainly accomplished that. And shall I tell you something else about Mayr? The Chief had to order him to start the affair with you. It wasn’t you, personally. Just women. You understand?”

  Sally shook his hand from her with a brusque movement. “No, I don’t want—you’re lying.” Sally backed away from him. “I don’t want to talk about it. You’re wrong. That’s crazy. Listen, just tell him what I said. But stay away from me. All of you. You’re revolting. Stay away.” And with that she turned and fled, leaving Gunther alone in his empty, cold rooms.

  “WELL, SALLY,” COLONEL Eiger said, when she telephoned him to report the events of the afternoon, leaving out the more personal parts. “It looks like now all we can do is wait.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But, Sally”—his voice was full of concern—“don’t go anywhere alone. You got that? No more gallivanting around by yourself, into the Russian sector or elsewhere. That’s an order.”

  “But, Colonel,” she said, “if he’s going to try and contact me, and I’m never alone, he won’t do it.”

  “If he needs to contact you badly enough, he’ll find a way. These men are SS, Sally. Remember that. God knows what these guys are up to or what they’ll think they have to do. You do what I say, Lieutenant. That’s an order.”

  So Sally promised and went back to her room. She sat on her bed, still in her overcoat, her hands sunk in her pockets, missing Tim, wishing for his arms around her. Her fingers closed around the little necklace and she pulled it out of her pocket.

  She twirled it around her finger. It was one of the few things she had ever received from her brother. And she had given it to Christian because it was her favorite possession. She couldn’t believe she had forgotten about it. She also couldn’t believe that Christian had kept it all these years
.

  As for what Gunther had told her, she would ignore most of it, unable to sort out the truth from the lies. Gunther hadn’t known Christian as she had. He hadn’t seen her husband fight with the choices and decisions he was faced with. She could accept that Heydrich had meant to have sex with her on the island, had had her drugged, but she had spoiled that plan. And Christian? Had he been what Gunther said?

  She wished she were at Tim’s, in his bed. She wished she could be done with this.

  CHAPTER 4

  “HI,” DOUG FINKELSTEIN said to Sally, as they met in the foyer of their office building. She stood at one of the two tall windows that looked out at the barren garden at the rear of the building. It was late November and the much-battered place was cold and clammy, the space heaters the army provided doing little against the years of miserable weather the old building had endured.

  “Morning,” Sally replied. “What a dreary view. You ready?” They were going over to the hospital to see Mala, the young woman who had photographed the pictures of Lezaky.

  “She’s not there anymore.”

  “What? What happened? She didn’t . . .?”

  “No. She’s alive. They’ve sent her to a bone man in Zurich.”

  “Have you heard about Mala?” said Max Tobin, coming up behind them.

  “Yeah. I was just telling Sally.”

  “We were supposed to go visit her,” said Sally.

  “Well, let’s get some coffee instead,” Tobin suggested, and the three of them went down to the cafeteria in the basement.

  The place had recently been scrubbed, disinfected, and painted. The furniture was army issue, gray, metal, utilitarian, but someone had put up yellow-and-white curtains on the high, narrow windows, and they helped warm the place up.

  “I wish I had had a chance to thank her,” Sally said, after they had gotten their coffee and found a table. “For those photographs.”

  “I wouldn’t think you’d want to,” said Doug.

  She looked at him, surprised and a little hurt by his remark. “Why do you say that?” she asked. Doug shrugged and picked up his cup, almost hiding behind it. “Identification in such situations is always difficult.”