As Time Goes By

by Michael Walsh

  Helena, she knew, would be bringing a message from the Underground in Prague. The Resistance used a constantly changing array of tradesmen and servants to convey messages, so there was nothing unusual about her sudden appearance. Indeed, Ilsa was expecting it.

  “What news?” Ilsa whispered.

  “Two messages,” said Helena, practically inaudibly.“I don't understand them. They don't tell me what the words mean. I wrote them down to be sure I didn't forget.”

  “That's for your own protection,” Ilsa explained.“The less you understand, the safer you are.” She looked at the girl and saw that Helena couldn't be more than sixteen years old. They were enlisting children to fight a monster, except this was no Grimm's fairy tale.“Just repeat exactly the words they told you. Don't worry about anything else. Do you think you can do that?”

  Perhaps it was her nerves or maybe it was something in the girl's manner, but Ilsa began to suspect the worst. Had the operation been compromised? Had someone cracked or confessed? Had the drop zone been discovered? Had the Gestapo managed to infiltrate the Underground? Or, God forbid, had British Intelligence been penetrated by the Nazis back in London? The German spy network appeared to function best in central Europe and at the Russian front, but it was growing in sophistication each month and now was quite effective in France, where each week brought new reports of Resistance fighters rounded up and shot. Had she been discovered? Had something happened to Victor? To Rick? Were Heydrich's men outside the door, getting ready to burst in?

  “Tell me,” she said, trying to stay calm, trying at least to sound calm, trying to keep the horrible urgency out of her voice.

  Helena unfolded a little scrap of paper.“The first message is from London. It says, ‘The blue parrot is out of his cage.’ ”

  Ilsa felt her heart leap. There was nothing to worry about at all! Her message had been received, and this was the reply. The“blue parrot” was their code name for the team;“out of his cage” meant they were on their way to Czechoslovakia. She almost laughed out loud.

  “The second I received only a little while ago from the Underground,” continued Helena. She stared at her note, trying to make sense of the words.“It says, ‘Operation Hangman. Tell London. Danger.’ ” Helena looked up from her reading.“They want to call it off. What does that mean?”

  At first Ilsa thought she must have misheard her. Call off Operation Hangman?“What?” she exclaimed, shaking Helena in her agitation.“Why?”

  “I don't know,” said the girl, clearly upset.“I don't know!”

  “Give me that,” Ilsa demanded, snatching the note and trying desperately to glean more. She tried to calm herself and failed.“It's much too dangerous for you to have something like this in your possession.”

  Her mind was working furiously. What had happened? Perhaps her fears that they had been betrayed were well founded after all. That damned Frau Hentgen: did she suspect something? Perhaps the Czechs really were cowards, afraid to go through with it. It was too late, though. The team was probably already on the ground. They couldn't stop now. They wouldn't stop now.

  No, no, no, she told herself.Not now. Not after what Victor has suffered. Not after what I have suffered. Not when we are this close. Not when I can make it happen.

  Not in a million years.

  Not over my dead body.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  With Saxon punctuality, Reinhard Heydrich called for her two days later at the flat on Skorepka Street. Ilsa was expecting him. After work she had washed her dark blonde hair, perfumed herself, and put on a fresh dress.

  “How lovely you look this evening, Fräulein Toumanova,” said Heydrich, bowing slightly from the waist. He stood outside the front door; behind him Ilsa could see his Mercedes, its motor idling, with a uniformed chauffeur in the front seat.“If you will permit me to say so, I think we shall make a very handsome couple tonight.”

  She had to admit he looked splendid in his impeccably tailored black-and-gray SS uniform, which had been cut to show off his trim fighting physique. As usual, his high black riding boots were shined to a mirror surface. His sandy hair, his well-fitting clothes, the way he stood at polite but rigid attention, even the way he held his hat in both hands, reminded her of someone. With a start, she suddenly remembered who.

  God help her, he reminded her of Victor—except that Victor was pure and good, while Heydrich was the personification of evil.

  “Good evening, Herr Heydrich,” she said noncommittally, allowing him to take her arm.

  He held the door for her as she entered the car, a big, roomy sedan with walnut paneling and plush leather seats. She sank back and let her head rest as the driver put the car into first gear and stepped on the accelerator. Heydrich was sitting facing her, attentive and very close.

  “For this evening, you may address me as Reinhard,” he said, taking her hand.“But only in private. It would not do for others to think the Protector admits of familiarity so quickly.”

  Ilsa glanced up quickly at the rearview mirror, but the chauffeur's eyes were on the road, professionally impassive.

  With a purr the Mercedes moved away, the German driver expertly negotiating the narrow Czech streets. From a console on the back of the driver's seat, Heydrich produced a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He popped the cork and poured. Some of the froth spilled onto his immaculately manicured hands. He licked it off.

  “You drink champagne, of course?” He handed Ilsa a glass.

  “With pleasure,” she replied, accepting it.

  As they glided through the streets of the city, Heydrich pointed out sight after sight, keeping up a running lecture on Prague, its history and important buildings. There wasn't much he didn't seem to know.

  “Are you aware that Mozart's Don Giovanni was first performed here?” he asked her.“This was his favorite city, and the good Germans of Prague made him feel especially welcome whenever he was here.” He poured more champagne for both of them.“Prague has always been more German instead of Praha. In fact, we insist upon it.”

  Ilsa had to admit Prague was beautiful—as beautiful in its own way as Paris was, but cold and remote where Paris was warm and welcoming. As if constructed by a bright, impudent child, the city was a medieval fantasy of steep spires and peaked red roofs. The many public squares were cobblestone, and the great Moldau River, called by the Czechs the Vltava, flowed majestically through the heart of the city. Prague was far more attractive than lumpen Vienna or bleak, windswept Berlin. No wonder the Nazis had occupied it, thought Ilsa; they would do anything to get out of their own ugly burgs.

  They were in an unfamiliar quarter of the city now, ancient and crabbed.“This is Josefov,” said Heydrich. Unlike most of the top Nazis, who were little more than peasants, he spoke elegant, very fashionable German. His speech possessed none of the ruralisms that still dotted the discourse of the Führer, and his crisp Saxon accent was far from Hitler's buffoonish Austrian intonation.“Stop the car.”

  They had been driving down a street called Parizská, a broad boulevard that led from the Old Town Hall northward until it crossed the river. Now they were stopped in front of a large, spare, imposing edifice. The driver opened the car doors, first for Heydrich and then for her.“Look around,” said the Protector.

  To Ilsa's astonishment, they were standing in front of a synagogue. On the streets, a few black-coated and bearded Orthodox Jews scurried away from the Mercedes as fast as they could. Heydrich let out a contemptuous laugh.

  “Behold,” he said,“the Jewish Quarter!”

  Ilsa could hardly believe her eyes. Right here, under the Hangman's nose, was a settlement of Jews, apparently going about their business unmolested. She turned to Heydrich with obvious questions in her eyes.

  “This is the Alt-Neu Synagogue,” he said,“the oldest in Europe. It shall also be the last. Hebrew legend says that the foundation stones were flown over from the Holy Temple in Jerusalem, with the stipulation that they should be returned on the Last
Day, the Day of Judgment. That day is coming much faster for the Jews than they ever could have imagined.”

  “Why is it called the Old-New Synagogue?” Ilsa inquired.

  Heydrich rubbed his hands together like a predator as he surveyed the building.“The word for ‘stipulation’ in Hebrew is altnay,” he said,“but it sounds like the Yiddish pronunciation of Alt-Neu. I suppose it is a Jewish idea of a joke. Well, we are not laughing anymore, and neither are they.”

  She shuddered in the light, fitful breeze. Since their arrival, Parizská Street had become entirely deserted, but she could feel frightened eyes peering down at her from behind closed curtains.

  Heydrich paid her no attention. He made a sweeping gesture that took in the surrounding blocks.“Our Führer wishes Josefov preserved forever,” he said,“as a kind of museum of Jewry, so that after our ultimate and inevitable victory, the Christian world may come and see the fate from which the great German people have so graciously spared it.”

  “A noble service to mankind indeed,” said Ilsa. She shuddered once more. The operation could not be called off! It could not be! This monster and every other like him must be destroyed. Didn't the Czechs understand that? What could she do to make them understand?

  Heydrich finally noticed her condition.“You are shivering, child,” he said, taking her by the arm.“I am sorry to subject you to such unpleasant sights, but both the Germans and the White Russians must know why we are fighting the Jewish Marxists in Russia.”

  They rode together over the Cechuv Most, across the river and through the big park called LetenskÉ Sady—she silent, he garrulous. Strange, he seemed never to speak at all when he was in the RSHA office, even when he was within his own inner sanctum. He merely grunted orders in a low monotone, read infinite reports, and met, usually weekly, with high-placed Nazis from Vienna and Berlin. About once a month he would travel to Berlin, only a few hours away by car, stay for a night or two, and then return.

  Now, in private, the Hangman revealed himself to be the soul of volubility. Indeed, his chatter had begun to take something of a personal turn, complaining about the stupidity of this or that official, praising Hitler, and even once letting slip a very mild criticism of his superior, Himmler.

  So wrapped up in listening to Heydrich was she that she had not noticed they had left the city of Prague behind them and were now driving in the countryside.

  “Is this a rural restaurant to which we are going, then, Herr Heydrich?” she inquired.

  “Reinhard,” he reminded her, spitting out the hard“d” sound at the end of his name.“We are not going to a restaurant. My own chef is preparing our meal tonight at my villa.” He glanced over at her.“Don't worry,” he said.“Frau Heydrich is conveniently away in Berlin, so we shall be quite alone.”

  Why was that piece of information not a surprise? Heydrich's intentions toward her could not have been clearer had he written them down and handed them to her. She would have to play him very carefully.“This route we have taken is quite interesting,” she ventured.

  Heydrich agreed.“In a few days, when my security precautions are complete, I shall be taking it each morning. I could continue to cross the Charles Bridge, but I no longer wish to do so. Far better for me to pass over the Cechuv Most, where my museum is taking shape before my very eyes. Oh, how I am collecting specimens now! Soon, all Europe will be one vast collection agency for my zoo. Each day I shall drive across the Cechuv Most and let the animals see their master coming, to strike fear and wonder and awe into them. Those whom I, Reinhard Tristan Eugen Heydrich, have personally selected as being fit for my institution!”

  “What about the others?” asked Ilsa.

  “There will be no others,” said Heydrich.“Wannsee has decided that, and our vengeance demands it.”

  Her heart was pounding so hard she thought the whole country must surely hear it. So he would not be driving over the Karluv Most at all! But that had been their plan all along, to kill him on the Charles Bridge! Even if she could get word to Victor, it was too late to change now. Somehow she would have to get Heydrich to stay on the Charles Bridge.

  Ilsa was so agitated that not until the door on her side opened and Heydrich was helping her out did she notice that the car had come to a stop outside a beautiful villa tucked away in a comely, sheltered valley.“Welcome to my home,” he said graciously.

  Still in a daze, Ilsa was escorted inside. An array of footmen and other servants stood in ranks near the door to greet the master of the house, each in turn nodding his or her head silently as the great man passed by. Ilsa saw fear and hatred in their eyes and knew he did not.

  The formal dining room was prepared for dinner à deux. The table was bedecked with the finest silver and Meissen china. Heydrich guided her toward a love seat in the corner, in front of which stood a fresh bottle of champagne and two crystal glasses. The champagne had been freshly opened. Heydrich poured.

  “Prosit,” he said, raising his glass.“Sieg Heil!” Hail, victory.

  Although it was nearly nine o'clock, the late spring sun had only recently set. Heydrich set down his glass for a moment and drew the curtains together gently.“This way,” he said,“we can have some privacy.”

  He kissed her far more quickly than she would have supposed or was prepared for. One minute he was drawing the curtains, the next she was in his arms, being forced upward so that her mouth might meet his. He devoured her hungrily but not rudely, and she finally broke away.

  “Herr Heydrich,” she gasped, trying to force him back without angering him,“bitte …” Surprised, not angry: that was the way she had to play it.

  He took a smart step back, as if he were going to salute her, but with a smirk on his lips, the lips that had so freshly tasted hers.“You will forgive my impetuosity, Fräulein Toumanova,” he said unapologetically.“I find it difficult to restrain my emotions when faced with incomparable beauty such as yours. The ability to judge beauty is the hallmark of the civilized man, wouldn't you agree?”

  “Yes, Reinhard,” she said, softening her voice to disguise the loathing she felt.“And the ability to restrain one's emotions is the mark of the true leader.”

  At this moment she could not help but think of Victor, whose calm resolve contrasted so greatly with Heydrich's naked appetite. The mask had slipped away, and she could see the skull beneath the skin, just as clearly as the skull on the Totenkopf SS insignia he wore on his uniform.

  The monster, she knew, had blinked. His lust was his weakness; that much they had known before. Now she also knew that he could be held off, at least for a time, by appeals to his honor. His desire could be intensified; the master manipulator could himself be manipulated. That was something she could exploit. But carefully, oh so carefully.

  “We shall make some music now,” he said, recovering.“You'll find the piano more than satisfactory, I am sure. It is a Bösendorfer made in Vienna to my specifications. Naturally, they are of the most demanding exactitude.”

  He took his violin, an Amati, out of its case and began to tune it.“Shall we try the Kreutzer Sonata?”

  “With pleasure.” She had not played the piece since she was a teenager, but enough of it remained in her fingers that she could give a good account of herself.

  “The greatest of the Beethoven violin sonatas,” he remarked just before they began.“We don't even know which key it really is in. Is it the A major of the title? Or the A minor of the first movement?” He turned to her.“What do you think, Tamara?”

  “To me,” she said,“it is simply in A.” She sounded the A for him to tune to.“You see?”

  He drew the bow over the strings expertly, painstakingly, until he was satisfied that they were perfectly in harmony.

  “You are an empiricist, I see,” he said, nodding.“It is the curse of your sex to take the world at face value, not to be able to perceive the depth and richness beneath. That is, I suppose, why all the greatest artists are men.”

  “You are right, Reinhard,�
� she said.

  “But the Kreutzer Sonata is so much more than simply ‘in A,’ my dear,” he said.“It is also a Tolstoy story of surpassing power about a loveless marriage.” He looked down at her, seated at the keyboard. She wondered briefly if her dÉcolletage were too deep.“Can anything be more tragic than a marriage which joins two bodies but not two souls?”

  She lowered her eyes and looked away.“I’m sure I wouldn't know,” she replied,“not being a married woman myself.”

  He began to play the slow, unaccompanied opening of the sonata, leaning into its plaintive chords, voicing them perfectly. He was, she had to admit, quite good.

  That the greatest of all Russian authors had written a short story about the Kreutzer Sonata was no wonder, thought Ilsa as she dug into her part. Together they played the music with great feeling and nuance, with only a few minor technical mishaps to mar what otherwise might have been a professional performance. For an all too brief twenty minutes Ilsa Lund forgot herself, forgot where she was and whom she was with. When the last run had dashed down the scale to culminate in the final chords, her exhilaration was overwhelming.

  Heydrich finished with a flourish, his bow soaring skyward. Her hands bounced off the keys and into the air. They looked at each other.

  “Magnificent,” he said. His face was flushed; even his coiffure was no longer perfect, for one lank strand of blond hair had fallen across his brow.“I have long dreamed of such an accompanist. To find such a beautiful one into the bargain, well, a man could not ask for more.”

  He gazed at her for what seemed like an eternity with those ice blue eyes.

  “Shall we sit down?” he finally said. Out of nowhere, two servants appeared and escorted them to the table.

  The meal was unexpectedly choice, a combination of German and Bohemian specialties whose centerpiece was a roast duck of surpassing tenderness. Her wineglass, she noticed, was kept filled throughout the dinner, the transition from a Moselle to a Beychevelle seamlessly accomplished. Her head was swimming as she rose from the table, and she resolved not to drink any more around him. Too dangerous.